


lancelot/other

by romanticalgirl



Series: pick-a-fic [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 1-19-09</p>
    </blockquote>





	lancelot/other

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 1-19-09

No one knew he was wounded until he fell to his knees inside the barracks. Everyone rushed toward him, but no one touched him, parting only to allow Lancelot through. Anyone else would receive a club-like fist to the head for touching him, but something about Lancelot – most likely his complete disregard for personal safety – kept Dagonet’s hand still when Lancelot touched his shoulder.

“To the bed.”

“That how you get women?”

“That easy, yes.” Lancelot helps Dagonet to his feet, holding him upright with sheer force of will, given that Dagonet weighed nearly twice Lancelot and seemed almost dead weight as he fell to the cot. “Poison?”

“No. Gut shot.” Dagonet lets Lancelot move his hand aside, the dark red staining the black leather. “Doesn’t hurt.”

“You’re a horrible liar.” Lancelot whispers softly, keeping it between the two of them. The youngest, Gawain, has been shoved out the door in search of a healer, though few of them believe in the Roman poultices and even fewer still in their prayers. “Let me see.” He eases Dagonet’s armor off, hissing softly as he sees the wound. Blood and worse seem to lie just beyond the ragged skin. “I think you shouldn’t be so quick to discount poison.”

“Woads.”

“They don’t like us much,” Lancelot agrees, gritting his teeth as he pulls the skin apart. “The head of the arrow is still inside. You want the healer?”

“You.” 

Lancelot sheds his own armor and bathes his hands well in the hot water that Gaheris has brought from the fire. His hands come clean and the water is stained with blood and ichor. “Make more. Get him a strap of leather.” 

Tristan slides the leather in Dagonet’s mouth, holding it firmly so his face is in a forced grimace. More water is set on to boil and Bors unearths a bottle of strong mead. The heady smell of it is enough to make Lancelot gag, but instead he forces himself to dig into the wound, his fingers searching for the sheared arrowhead buried inside Dagonet. He feels it and curses, managing to get his fingers around the slick metal, though one of the sharp spikes pierces his skin. The prospect of drinking Arthur’s healer’s noxious curatives brings the curse more than the pain, and he frees the arrowhead and drops it in an earthenware bowl that Kay provides.

Gaheris pours water slowly over the wound, washing away blood. Bors pours some of the mead over it and one of the others presses a mostly clean cloth against it to staunch the bleeding. Lancelot takes a knife from one of the other knight’s belts and slices a larger cut in his finger, sucking at the wound and spitting blood onto the floor. Reaction sets in and he sways slightly, not surprised to find himself lying pressed against Dagonet’s side as Tristan stands and the knights disperse, cleaning weapons and gear and showing no sign of concern as Gawain arrives with Arthur’s man.


End file.
